The Ones Left Behind
by ancazur
Summary: The transmission was in the case of L's death, but only Roger feels the absence of Kira's other victim: his life-long friend.


_L is dead._

He never thought much about the children. There were others to tend to them, teachers to advise and cooks to feed. Therapists if they needed it, which most of them did. But as he wandered the halls of Wammy's House, with Near on a flight to New York and Mello only God knew where, he felt their absence. Not because of them, and not because their absence meant that L was gone, but because it meant that Quillish was gone, too.

It was the only reason he would receive the transmission. Roger wandered to the playground, blissfully empty while students were currently in class. He had no desire to sit in his office, with the shadows of Wammy's top two still lingering. Roger sat on a swing, staring at his cell phone. There was no one to alert him of Quillish. A system had been set up in the case of L's death, but not of his handler. And that hurt the most.

Roger looked up at the institution. It had been far too long since Quillish had walked its halls, a gaggle of children blocking his path and fighting for his attention. And he knew each one of them by name, knew their areas of expertise. He could count off their top ten students, their grade point averages, and what they enjoyed to do in the little spare time they had.

There were no instructions for the new Watari.

He was grateful for the SPK, because he wouldn't have to assume the position immediately. Near was in Commander's Rester's capable hands. And Mello... Roger sighed. Fifteen wasn't as old as the boy imagined, but maybe the flow of time was different in the halls of Wammy's. How old was Near? Thirteen? How old was _L_ when he started doing this?

He felt a sharp pain in his chest.

Roger kicked off the ground, swinging slightly. The cell phone dropped to the dirt.

When Quillish had offered him a job at the orphanage, it was impossible to refuse. Yes, there were other fields he would have preferred—ones that didn't involve children—but he couldn't say no to his dearest friend. He had lost track of the years; he couldn't recall just how long they had known each other. He'd seen the spark in his eye when discussing his plans for Wammy's House, and Roger was determined to help.

He never imagined he would be doing this without him.

Roger swiped at the corner of his eye, surprised that it was damp. He hadn't cried at all. The older one gets, the more accustomed he is to death. But Quillish's death was like his own; it was unfathomable. One tries not to think too much about his own end.

"Mr. Roger?"

Surprised, he looked up at the lone figure crossing the playground. He resented that any of the children had seen him out there.

"What can I do for you, Matt?"

Roger felt like he should say something more, but the last thing he wanted was to converse with one of the children right now. Especially one who looked so morose, biting down on his lip and shuffling his feet as he walked. Did he care about L that much? Or was it something else?

"Nothing," he said. "I just... didn't expect to see you here."

No others had followed him out. Roger glanced at his watch. "Is class out already?"

"No..." Matt kicked at the ground. "I didn't feel well, so teacher said I could go out and get some air."

He suspected that Matt hadn't attended class at all, but didn't press the issue. Roger stood, bending slowly to retrieve the phone. He dusted it off on the hem of his shirt. "Well, feel better. Make sure you come in later for supper."

"Thanks, Mr. Roger. I will."

_What would Quillish do, I wonder?_ He passed Matt on his way in, vaguely aware that this boy staring at the ground was now their top student.

He didn't like the thought, already preparing for the next successor.

But should he be?

Roger turned around, but Matt had already run off toward the edge of the playground.

The halls were empty as he returned to his office. He stood at the window, holding the framed photograph of Quillish. He stared outside, idly wondering where Matt ran off to, but also having no desire to see him. Despite the years between them their faces had shared a similar vacancy, and he didn't want to see that reflected back at him again.

The frame slipped from his hands, crashing onto the corner of the table before tumbling to the floor. The glass didn't shatter, thankfully, though the frame itself broke into three pieces. Carefully, he pulled the photograph from beneath the glass to examine it for scratches. It appeared unscathed. Quillish's face stared up at him, calm, smiling slightly. Like he always looked. He turned it over.

_To my friend Roger. For justice. -Q_

And smaller, along the edge of the photo: _12-8-44_.

He never noticed it before. As a date, it didn't make sense—he hadn't even known Quillish in 1944, and the photo itself was a much older version of his childhood friend. He rubbed a thumb over the numbers, as if it could give him a clue.

It came to him in an instant, as if Quillish himself stood at his shoulder and whispered the answer—_the safe_.

He hadn't thought of the safe in years. It wasn't his; Roger had taken over the office when Quillish took to the road as L's handler. He had mentioned vaguely that there were important documents in there, but it was none of Roger's concern. He had been curious at first, but as the years progressed he didn't even think of the combination lock hidden beneath his desk.

He couldn't help but chuckle as he lowered himself to the floor. It was obviously a much-younger man who had arranged for a floor-level safe, one whose limbs didn't protest as he crawled under the desk. The notched on the floorboard was exactly where he remembered it. The board swung up on an invisible hinge; the combination lock was set into the darkness below. Roger pulled the desk lamp to the floor and spun the lock. _12-8-44_. It opened with a _click_.

_Important documents_ had been an understatement. Family records, birth certificates, insurance papers. Most of it bore Quillish's name; some of it was L's. Documents stashed away like the nameless detective had been a relative, a long-lost son. He stared at a birth certificate. Not so nameless anymore.

Amidst the paperwork he spotted a folded-up piece of lined paper, hesitant to open it. This was a note hidden between confidential documents, only found through a mysterious set of numbers written on a photograph only he owned...

He rubbed his forehead, staring down at the familiar handwriting.

_Dear Roger,_

_I am doubtful that you would access this safe, since I never gave you the combination (not directly), unless you have been faced with the unfortunate reality of my death. If that is not the case, I apologize for alarming you. If it is... I am sorry._

_As you may have noticed, this safe contains everything that is important to me. I have arranged that the orphanage be in your name upon my demise. I know we did not discuss this, but there is no one else I trust with my life's work. I know you will serve it well. Also enclosed is everything I have for L—he requested that I safe keep it—even if it is not much. I trust you understand these files cannot be viewed by anyone other than yourself._

_As we __have__ discussed, you will now fulfill the role of L's handler. Do not be alarmed if he doesn't take to you easily. I do not like to think what his grief would be like in my absence. I do apologize for leaving you with such a difficult task._

Roger paused to wipe his eyeglasses on his shirt. His tears were dripping onto the letter, smearing the ink, erasing parts of his instruction on how to deal with a grieving L. _He never considered they would go at the same time_. With shaking hands, he turned the letter over.

_You will find an envelope with everything you need. There is an exhaustive list of police contacts around the world, in additional to L's aliases and our underworld connections. Much of the job is learned day-by-day, as I'm sure you have already gathered._

_I have faith in you, Roger, and I trust no one else to be my successor. It is difficult work, but fulfilling. I miss you already, old friend._

_Fondly,_

_Quillish_

"Mr. Roger?"

He knocked his head on the underside of the desk, startled to hear a child's voice in the office. He lost track of how long he had been sitting on the floor. He gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, and Matt came into view as he pulled himself up.

"What are you doing on the floor?" Matt asked.

"I... just dropped something," he answered, kicking the trap door closed as he sat in his chair. "Is something the matter?"

He hesitated, staring at Roger's puffy, watery eyes before closing the door. Roger hid the note beneath a stack of papers as Matt advanced. The boy looked away as he yanked his goggles down around his neck, rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

"Matt, let's talk." He kept a hand on the stack of papers and rubbed a foot against the hidden floorboard, like he could channel Quillish's strength. As if Quillish himself could reappear.

Out of nowhere, Matt covered his face with both hands and was wracked with silent, heaving sobs. Roger swiped a thumb under his own eye, trying to conceal his grief, trying to stay strong for his children. He rummaged through a desk drawer; Matt curiously peeked through his fingers at the cacophony of unorganized office supplies. Roger pulled out a bar of chocolate.

"Does this make it better or worse?" he asked, passing the bar over the desk.

Matt smiled a little. "Both." He massaging the silver wrapper with his thumbs before peeling it off.

_I know what you're going through. God doesn't give you anything you can't handle. It'll get better._

But he couldn't say it, because he couldn't convince himself, either.

"It sucks, doesn't it?" Roger said, unexpectedly, picking up a phrase he had heard the children use. But it was the only way to describe the hollowness within him.

Matt nodded.

"Can I tell you about Mr. Wammy?" Matt nodded again. Roger leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and stared at the stack of papers. The words of the letter had already burned into his memory. _I miss you already, old friend._


End file.
